


A Way Forward

by nanaa127



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Conversations that needed to be had, Gen, S3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-14
Updated: 2019-04-13
Packaged: 2020-01-13 00:05:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18457388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nanaa127/pseuds/nanaa127
Summary: Bad weather and an unfortunate accident give Aramis and Porthos a chance to hash some things out.





	1. Chapter 1

He was moving.

It was the gentle sway that let him know he was on the back of a horse, but Porthos instinctively knew it wasn't his own by the unfamiliar gait. Beyond that, everything was muddled. He became aware of something pressed against his back, something that was wrapped around him tightly and holding his arms down by his sides, effectively immobilizing him. A wave of alarm crashed down on him as he began to struggle, setting off a pounding hammer in his skull. He pried his heavy eyes open with some effort, but all that registered was a misty gray blur. Porthos sensed something was terribly wrong, but thoughts slithered away from his mental grasp and refused to be strung together in any coherent fashion. The soft incomprehensible mutters he heard behind him as he began to squirm let him know that there was someone behind him that was restraining him. _No_ \- he couldn't be taken. He refused to be dragged to a Spanish camp as a prisoner, never to be seen again. He would not be forced to abandon his brothers like this, not without a fight. Porthos began to thrash for all he was worth and managed to loosen an elbow enough to smash it backward. A strangled grunt rewarded his efforts.

"Stop, stop! Porthos please, you must calm down."

Porthos froze, thrown off by the voice that rasped in his ear. His chest squeezed painfully at the sound of it before he renewed his efforts at freeing himself. He vaguely understood that he must be in a bad way if _that_ voice was the one that he heard now, a voice that remained near and dear to his heart in spite of his best efforts to banish it from his memory. Despite long years of silence, Porthos still caught himself expecting to hear that voice at his side and it angered him that his captors would dare use it against him.

"No please, you have to stop! You're - "

Porthos didn't get to hear the end of the entreaty as he managed to finally twist himself free of the confining arms. He could feel the horse shift uneasily underneath him as the animal tried to compensate for the violent movement on her back. Porthos drew his leg up to throw it over the horse's neck in an attempt to slide off and nearly screamed. Agony crackled up the offending limb and set off a shower of sparks in his head, stamping out any further thought of escape. He tried to fight off the black encroaching at the edges of his vision, but the aftershocks of pain that were pulsing from leg undermined his efforts. Slumping back, Porthos was helpless to do anything but to slip back into darkness and back into the arms of the enemy.  
________________________________________

The violent storms that had rocked the forest the previous day and night had settled into a cold, unpleasant mist that was too light to be a proper drizzle but was heavy enough to leave the air saturated with moisture. It cloaked everything in a dull gray that threatened to lull Aramis into a doze despite his discomfort. The marksman shifted tiredly in his saddle, trying to re-position his arms so that he could relieve some of the strain in his back and chest while keeping his friend from slipping sideways and onto the muddy, rain-saturated ground. It would be just his luck that a small bit of mud that was dried on his face and would begin to itch, and he absently wondered out how to scrape at the irritated patch of skin without moving too much when he felt Porthos begin to stir in front of him. Aramis bit back a grunt of pain as the movement forced muscles to tighten around his damaged ribcage in order to keep his companion steady.

"Porthos?" A tinge of hope seeped into his voice. His friend had been out for too long and it worried him.

The big Musketeer surged back into consciousness fighting, and Aramis nearly fell back out of the saddle. He cursed himself out loud for not better preparing for this moment. He should have expected this, should have known...but there was really no time for Aramis to continue mentally kicking himself. He let go of the reins, trusting his mount to steady herself underneath them, and instinctively grabbed onto Porthos more tightly, refusing to let him fall. He knew immediately that it was the wrong thing to do as Porthos' thrashing intensified. An errant elbow slammed back into an already tender spot on his chest and Aramis gasped, feeling something snap and nearly blacking out at the impact.

"Stop, stop! Porthos please, you must calm down." His pleading was choked by pain as he struggled to suck air back into his lungs. For a moment he thought he might have gotten through to his addled friend as Porthos stilled. Before Aramis could sigh in relief however, Porthos redoubled his efforts to free himself from Aramis' embrace.

"No please, you have to stop! You're safe, Porthos - "

It was clear that his words were not getting through. _Or perhaps my words no longer carry the weight they once had_ , he thought distractedly. Whatever the case may be, Aramis had a good idea of what Porthos was going to try next and wasn't surprised when his distressed companion tried to sling his broken leg over the horse's quarters in a bid for freedom. He was upset but unsurprised when Porthos let out a strangled cry and sagged in his arms, consciousness fleeing at the shock of moving the injured limb. The large Musketeer began to list dangerously to the left, and Aramis couldn't prevent a groan from escaping as he scraped together the strength to heave Porthos up and back so that his friend was securely slumped in his arms again.

For a long moment, Aramis sat still, blinking away the black spots dancing across his vision. He forced himself to breathe slowly and shallowly, trying not to aggravate the fire racing around his abused ribs. Rather than thinking about how disastrously this could have ended, Aramis instead reached down and gave Bijou a gentle pat on the flank instead, thanking her silently for her steadiness. He could feel warm wetness soaking to his stiff shirt behind his left shoulder again, but there was nothing to be done for it. Aramis blew out a breath, pushed the pain away and gently leaned Porthos forward until he was draped over his mount's neck.

"Hold still for a moment, mon ami. I'm just going to check your leg." Aramis dismounted with less than his usual grace and lightly ran his hands up Porthos' lower leg. The break had been ugly but thankfully not as severe as it could have been. The rough splint he'd placed on the leg still held, and Aramis didn't think anything had shifted. He briefly debated taking off the splint to do a more thorough examination, but a glance up at Porthos' slack, blood-streaked face made him decide against it. The faster they got back to Paris, the better. There was really not much more he'd be able to do for his friend out here.

"Well then," he said out loud, "let's go home, shall we?"  
________________________________________

Delivering the missive from the king to the Duc de Vendôme had been simple, straightforward and a bit boring, exactly as Aramis expected. It had also been somewhat tense and uncomfortable, which was something the marksman was becoming resigned to in the few months since his return to Paris. It was less than a two day ride to Étampes and Aramis had hoped that he'd be able to set out on his own to refresh himself but his new Captain had other ideas. Athos had all but tied Porthos to his horse and Aramis didn't know whether he was more discouraged by the lack of trust from Athos or by Porthos' reluctance to accompany him. _Have patience_ , Aramis reminded himself, although he would be the first to admit that this was not a virtue that he possessed in abundance. Still, he was more than willing to give his brothers - and they were still brothers, weren't they? - the time they needed to readjust to his presence.

Rain had soaked Paris and the surrounding areas for about a week. Although it had stopped for the moment, the constant precipitation had softened the ground underfoot into a sticky, cold mud that sucked at their horses' hooves, churning and splattering everywhere with each step. The overcast skies and damp chill that had settled over them on their return to Paris had turned Porthos' cheerless mood even more dour. Aramis could feel the displeasure rolling off his traveling companion in waves. Aramis was no stranger to war, and despite knowing how frontline battle could darken even the brightest of personalities, the harsh edges he suddenly found in each of his brothers unnerved him a bit. He had always felt that one of the reasons that les inséparables held such strong bonds was because each of the four had specific qualities that provided balance to the group as a whole. With long years of hard life between them, it was clear that the other three had found a new, somewhat forbidding equilibrium that didn't need him to maintain stability. And so since his return, he couldn't do much more than orbit around the other three Musketeers, close to the brothers he loved but always on the periphery, no longer an essential part of the equation. It was, in some ways, worse than being separated from them completely.

Not for the first time since leaving the abbey, Aramis wondered if it was simply too late. Watching Porthos' silent figure ride ahead of him, sour remorse rose up in his throat but he choked it down. If he was perfectly honest with himself, he'd never really considered how things would be if he returned to the regiment. Oh, to be sure he'd often imagined how thrilling it would be to ride with his brothers once again while he was at the abbey, spinning wild tales for the younger children, but he'd always dismissed those thoughts as pure fantasy. Now that he was actually back, the reality of the situation was a bit of a cold shock.

With a sigh, Aramis shook off his own darkening mood and pressed his heels gently into Bijou's sides. _One grumpy Musketeer is more than enough for this trip_ , he thought as caught up to Porthos so that they were side by side.

"It looks like rain again," he commented, wincing a bit even as the words came out of his mouth. Being surrounded by monks for the last four years hadn't done much for his conversation skills.

Porthos kept his eyes forward and frowned. "So? It's been raining all week."

"Yes that's true." Aramis stifled another sigh. "Look Porthos, do you think we could -"

"Not now, Aramis." The large Musketeer cut Aramis off, his scowl darkening.

"It would only take - "

"No. I don't want to talk about this now."

"You don't even know what I was going to say."

Porthos grunted and finally glanced at Aramis. "I don't need to know what you were going to say to know that I don't want to hear it right now."

Aramis picked up the stubbornness in Porthos' voice and a small part of him couldn't blame the other Musketeer. A serious discussion was not the sort of thing to have while cold, wet, and uncomfortable, but the marksman didn't really see a choice. Aramis knew that Porthos could be slippery when he wanted thanks to his early education at the Court, but he had been particularly difficult to pin down these past couple of months. _It's almost as if he wants to avoid me_ , Aramis thought dryly. _I can't imagine why_.

"If not now, then when? Porthos, I understand that you are upset, but if there's anything I can do or say to make it right, just please _tell me_."

"There's nothing you can do. Time's past for that."

"There must be something," Aramis tried again, fighting down his own mounting frustration and disappointment. "Please, just tell me what you want from me, Porthos. Do you...do you want me to leave?" It was a question that had drifted into his head in the past couple of weeks, and now that it had settled into his brain, Aramis had found it difficult to banish.

Porthos pulled on the reins and brought his horse to a sudden standstill. "What, so you'd run away again? Is that how you're going to solve all your problems now?"

"No! Of course not," Aramis protested. Could Porthos not see that he simply wanted to put things right between them? There was once a time when the understanding between himself and his brother had been second nature. It was depressing to think they'd grown so far apart. "But I also refuse to burden you, any of you, with my presence if it's unneeded and unwanted."

"Is that what you think?"

Aramis pulled his own mount up, but remained silent, waiting on Porthos to continue. Besides, he didn't know what to think. Things had changed. Not so much to be unrecognizable, but just enough that the note of unfamiliarity was constantly throwing him off-balance.

Porthos turned in his saddle and directed the full force of his glare on the other Musketeer. After trying to unsuccessfully to catch Porthos' attention for a while now, Aramis found it a bit startling to be subjected to it without warning.

"Fine. Yeah, I'm still angry." Porthos' voice lowered into a fierce grumble. "Part of me is still mad as hell with you and I still can't believe you did what you did. You...you _betrayed_ us, 'Mis. You understand that? You turned your back on us when we needed you."

Aramis nodded despite the sting of Porthos' words. The marksman could hear the simmering resentment in his brother's voice, but under it, he could also hear the deep hurt. The disbelief that Aramis would deliberately refuse to watch their backs as they were preparing to go into battle. Even with his stupid vulnerability in sleeping with the Queen, that one act that could have destroyed everything he held dear and had placed the deaths of two more innocent people on his head, Aramis knew it was this decision that had riled Porthos so much.

"I didn't want to, Porthos. You must believe that. That was not a decision that was easy for me to make."

"It should have been, though." Porthos' tone made it clear that despite the agonizing soul-searching Aramis had put himself through, he'd still chosen incorrectly.

Aramis sighed. "I had made a vow, Porthos. I had to at least try to uphold it."

Porthos scoffed. "And how did that work out for you?"

Aramis still didn't know the answer to that question. At the time, he thought he'd been doing God's will. Now, he wasn't so sure. Four years of hiding from the world and trying to atone for his sins had done little to actually wash them away. The immediate danger from his actions was past and he thankfully no longer had to worry about any of his friends being punished for his crime, but his decisions had left scars on their brotherhood that he wasn't sure would ever fade.  
The silence dragged on for a while before Porthos continued a bit more gently.

"Look, I don't know how the others feel about it. Maybe they've forgiven you already, but it's going to take a while for me. I need to know if I can trust you again."

"Of course. I understand," Aramis replied quietly. His heart sank, but he really did understand. Aramis couldn't deny that he was angry too. He was angry with Rochefort, angry with the King and most of all, angry with himself. Since returning to Paris, every awkward, stilted interaction he'd had with Athos, D'Artagnan and especially Porthos only served to remind him that he might have ruined one of the finest things in his life.

Porthos sighed heavily and nudged his horse back into motion. A light drizzle began to fall again from the darkening skies and soon enough, the two men were soaked through as the rain became heavier. Thunder rumbled ominously in the distance, the only sound that broke the silence between the two men.


	2. Chapter 2

It was raining. _Again_. The mist that had enshrouded them eventually coalesced into fat raindrops that now soaked his exposed head and cloak. Even Bijou seemed depressed by the return of precipitation, her head dropping lower as she plodded forward, carrying the two men. _At least it will wash some of the mud away_ , Aramis thought tiredly.

The marksman glanced down at the dirt-encrusted curls that were slumped in front of him and his arms tightened around his unconscious friend, remembering the breathless fear that had slashed through him when he'd seen Porthos teetering on the edge of the trail after his horse had wandered too far off to the side. The rocky ground, which was saturated and unstable, had crumbled away from under the panicked animal. Aramis had run to try and guide rider and horse back to safety but had been too late. The two Musketeers and one unfortunate horse had been swept down the slope leading away from the trail. Aramis' fall had only come to a halt when he had crashed into a tree. The impact had cracked his ribs and Aramis hoped that was where the damage ended. There was also a deep, dull ache behind his left shoulder from where something - whether a sharp stone or tree branch he didn't know - had found the gap in his doublet and had torn through cloth and skin as he'd tumbled, leaving what Aramis assumed was a gouge in his back. All in all, he counted himself fortunate for not having broken his neck.

Porthos had been less lucky. His head had clearly met a rock with some force, as he had an ugly bruise that was spreading outwards from a nasty lump on his forehead just above his right eye. The marksman couldn't tell whether the lump indicated a more serious injury and simply prayed that his friend's skull was intact. Porthos had also suffered a broken leg, and while the skin had mercifully remained intact around the break, the bone had been displaced. Aramis grimaced at the memory of having to set the bone; it had been more than unpleasant for both parties involved, but had to be done before Porthos could be moved.

With no way to carry the passed-out Porthos back up to the steep trail without risking another fall, Aramis had spent the rest of the night trying to find a path back to the main trail that was level and stable enough so that he could bring Bijou down to carry them both out. Riding Porthos' horse was out of the question as the poor beast had not survived the fall. While he mourned the loss of the animal, he was thankful beyond words that the horse had not been Porthos' usual mount. His search had been slowed both by the pitch blackness of the forest and by his constant need to return to his friend, worried that the other man would wake up hurt and confused and assume that Aramis had abandoned him again. _Not this time, my friend_ , Aramis promised silently. _Never again_.

When he'd finally found a relatively safe way back up to the trail about two kilometers away, it had taken some coaxing to get his horse to go back into the forest with him. Bijou, being the intelligent animal that she was, had been rightfully wary of the unstable, rain-slick footing. Nevertheless, they had slowly made their way back to where Porthos lay. It had been a struggle to get his friend on Bijou's back, especially without jostling any of Porthos' injuries too badly, and by the time Aramis achieved his goal, he was left sweating and trembling from his exertions. He'd forgotten how painful cracked ribs were, especially when trying to lift something as heavy as a large, full-grown man. He shook his head, imagining Porthos' reaction.

"Soft and weak, just what you'd expect from a sheltered ex-monk," Aramis mocked himself out loud with a humorless chuckle. Perhaps it was a good thing that Porthos had not been awake for the ordeal, for more than one reason.

Shrugging his shoulders, he had nudged Bijou to standing, pausing as a mild wave of vertigo washed over him. He thought he could feel a sticky warmth spreading across his back again, but it was hard to tell with the rain and mud soaking everything. Regardless, there was nothing he could do about it, so he had simply ignored it and began to lead his horse and her unconscious rider back up to the trail. Once they'd reached the top, Aramis had finally mounted with another pained grunt, settled Porthos against himself and had begun the trek back to Paris.

He was now traveling in an exhausted haze, drained by lack of sleep and the relentless agony of riding while supporting his friend against his cracked - probably now broken - ribs. Porthos' aborted escape attempt really hadn't helped matters. His back pulsed hot with his heartbeat, and Aramis tried not to think about how dirty the wound was despite the small amount of spirits he'd carefully poured over his shoulder in a clumsy attempt to clean it out. With nothing but the patter of the rain to keep him company, his tired brain kept looping back to the conversation they'd had before their near-disaster.

"I'm sorry, Porthos," the marksman murmured. "I am so, truly sorry." When Aramis had made his decision four years ago, he'd known that Porthos was likely to be hit hardest by his absence. He distinctly remembered the stark disbelief and growing fury in his friend's eyes when he refused to leave the abbey for the front. Despite that, he'd failed to predict how long Porthos would hold onto his grudge. It had caught him off guard a bit; while he knew that Porthos felt things deeply and could be quick to react, he'd never thought of his friend as being vindictive. _Betrayal_ , Porthos had called it. Perhaps that was the crux of the problem. Aramis had never considered his decision to be one of betrayal, although he could see now how it would seem that way to the man that had once considered him to be a brother.

"If I had known how it would change the way things are between us..." Aramis trailed off. Would he have made a different decision? He'd eventually come back to Paris anyway. Perhaps he would have ridden to war with them, if he had known then that he'd ultimately abandon his vow and that it would save this brotherhood that he no longer recognized.

"I hope you know how much I regret everything, my friend. It was never my intention to hurt you so badly. I can only pray that one day you will see that."

"Aramis?"

His name was no more than a quiet croak, but it was sweet music to his ears."Porthos? Are you with me, mon ami?" The big Musketeer began to stir and Aramis tensed up a bit, remembering how Porthos' previous return to consciousness had ended. He forced himself not to tighten his grip. "Wake up, Porthos. I need you to wake for me."

His only answer was a grunt as the shifting intensified. The marksman bit back a groan as the movement jostled his... _everything_. At this point, one pain ran into another and everything hurt.

"No no, stay still. Please don't move."

It appeared that his plea had gotten through as Porthos stilled. "What happened?"

"You fell. Do you remember? The ground gave away beneath you and you went off the edge of the trail."

There was another grunt and then a strangled curse as Porthos tried to move his injured limb again. "The hell...?"

"You broke your leg, Porthos. You hit your head as well. You've quite a spectacular bruise on your forehead."

"Oh," Porthos mumbled. It was hard to tell if anything Aramis said had actually registered. "Wha' are you doing here?"

"What do you mean? We rode out to deliver a message to the Duc together. We are on our way back to Paris now."

"No...no... You're not - where're Athos and D'Artagnan? Where are you taking me?" It was clear that Porthos' agitation levels were beginning to rise. Between the slurred words and the confusion, Aramis was hard-pressed not to be swallowed by concern. Head injuries could be so unpredictable.

"I'm here, Porthos. It's me, I promise," Aramis replied, his voice pitched low and soothing. "We're going to back to Paris. We're going home, alright? I'm going to get you home, and you're going to be just fine."

Porthos nodded, although it was hard to tell whether he was nodding in response to Aramis' words or whether his head was simply drooping as he fell back into a stupor.

"Can you stay awake for me?" Aramis gave his friend a gentle squeeze, hoping to keep him conscious. "Porthos?"

Silence was the only answer that he got. With a sigh, Aramis settled back again, trying to ignore the anxiety that was settling in his chest like a cold, heavy stone. They couldn't be more than a couple hours or so outside of the city now. They were almost home.  
________________________________________

Porthos leaned back in his chair, stretching his throbbing leg in front of him. The physician, a vocal little man appropriately named Petit, had replaced the rough splint Aramis had apparently placed around his leg with a more refined version. Petit had declared that the marksman had done a fine job of aligning the bone, saving Porthos the pain of having it reset. The Musketeer snorted at the thought of Aramis setting a bone improperly. Despite four years of hiding away in a monastery, Porthos thought that Aramis was still the finest field medic he'd ever known.

While the day outside was bright and sunny - the storms had finally cleared away in the past few days - the garrison infirmary was dim, for which Porthos was grateful. A pounding headache still plagued him, nearly five days removed from their...accident? Porthos was still a bit foggy on what had happened. He imagined that he'd remain so until the man lying in the bed before him woke up. The fever had broken last night, and Petit seemed to be pleased with the way Aramis' shoulder was healing. So now all that was left was for the man to open his eyes and explain himself.

The infirmary door opened and closed quietly behind him, and Porthos glanced back. The captain of the Musketeers walked toward him, his face blank but his eyes worried, as they had been since Porthos and Aramis had returned to the garrison somewhat worse for the wear. "Any change?"

"Not since last night. He's taking his time, isn't he?"

Athos' lips twitched. "Indeed. Perhaps we should be grateful. Who knows what other foolishness he may subject us to when he wakes up?" From what Porthos knew, Athos had been the one to find the marksman slumped over on Porthos' bed hours after they'd arrived at the garrison, wracked by shivers while in clutches of a raging fever. The gash on his back had become badly infected. Porthos had woken up in time to hear Petit muttering his way through the gruesome task of picking out the splinters and dirt that had been forced into the wound, debriding and then packing it with poultice to draw out the poisons. Aramis hadn't stirred through the entire process.

Porthos considered the pale form before him. The marksman had spent the last several nervewracking days in a semi-lucid state, restless as his fever steadily rose and his body fought to bring the infection under control. The three other Musketeers and the physician spent their days and nights on rotation watching over their ailing brother, trying to cool him down and soothe his agitation. Thanks to their tireless efforts, he was now finally resting peacefully, propped up precariously on his side to reduce pressure on both his injured shoulder and ribs. This was something he had definitely not missed while Aramis had been gone. No matter what lay between them, Porthos absolutely hated seeing his lively friend laid low.

"What do you think, Athos?"

"Could you be more specific?"

Porthos rolled his eyes. He knew Athos was being dense on purpose. "About Aramis. About him being back here."

The captain tilted his head as he regarded the still figure on the bed. "If this is where he truly wants to be, then I will not deny him the opportunity to rejoin us. He once was one of the finest Musketeers, and if he chooses he can be so again."

Porthos grunted. He shouldn't have been annoyed at Athos' response, but he was anyway. Leave it to the man to answer him without actually saying anything.  
"More than that,"Athos continued after a long pause, "he is our brother."

"Even after everything," Porthos mused softly.

"Some decisions are impossible to make, Porthos. He did the best he could. I suspect you know this already. Besides," Athos said, his voice colored with warmth, "I have missed him."

Porthos sat silently for a while, mulling over Athos' words. The captain briefly laid a hand on his shoulder before leaving again for a meeting, extracting a promise from Porthos to let him know when Aramis woke up.

Although he didn't remember the incident that had left with an aching head and useless leg, he did remember snippets of the conversation he _thought_ he'd had with the unconscious marksman. _Do you want me to leave?_ In all honesty, Porthos couldn't say that he was surprised that Aramis had asked. He knew that things had likely not been comfortable for the former monk since he'd returned with them. _Do you want me to leave?_ Did he? The big man shook his head. He'd come to find that the answer was an instinctive and emphatic _no_. In spite of the resentment that still reared its ugly head every so often, Aramis was unquestionably still his brother.

During the last four years, he'd missed Aramis terribly. It was something he couldn't deny, although he tried hard to do so. Porthos had missed his friendship, missed the confidence of having Aramis at his back, and they'd all certainly missed his skill with firearms and needles during the war. He even missed the reckless self-sacrificial tendencies that had been - and still were - a bad habit of the marksman. Now that Aramis was back in Paris, Porthos found that he still missed his brother. But now, he couldn't blame Aramis for the feeling. Not when he'd been the one actively avoiding the man.

Movement on the bed drew Porthos out of his thoughts. He looked down to find a pair of sleepy brown eyes looking back at him.

"Aramis! You're awake."

"So it seems." Aramis voice was a dry rasp. "How is your head?"

Porthos huffed as he reached over to grab a cup of water than had been left by the bedside. Of course that would be the first thing he would ask. Aramis rolled over onto his back and gingerly pushed himself up with a pained gasp, leaning heavily against the pillows. Porthos handed the cup over and watched as the marksman took it with a shaky hand and drained it.

"It's fine. Petit said I was lucky not to lose an eye. Or break my skull." Porthos reached up and felt the neat row of stitches had been put into his forehead.

"Hmmm. Don't touch them."Aramis tilted his head back and squeezed his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose. "And your leg?"

"It should heal straight, thanks to you," Porthos said gruffly.

Aramis gave a small nod. "That's good."

"How are you doing?" Porthos figured he should get someone to alert the physician so that Aramis could be checked over now that he was finally awake, but he couldn't bring himself to move at the moment.

The marksman gave a small shrug, wincing a bit as he pulled at the now-healing wound. His eyes remained closed. "I believe I'll survive."

An awkward silence descended between them as Porthos sat back, studying his friend. The last few days had certainly taken their toll on the other Musketeer. It had been a struggle to get the man to eat and drink while he'd been ill, and it showed. Dark smudges under his eyes stood out on a face that was hollowed and too pale, and his normally tousled hair was matted and fell limply against his head. His breathing was shallow in an effort to minimize any disturbance of his broken ribs. Sitting here by his friend's bedside reminded him of all the times he'd done so in the past. It also reminded him of all the times that Aramis had been by his side when he'd been injured or ill, hovering over him like the proverbial mother hen.

"You don't have to stay."

Aramis' words were so soft that Porthos had to lean forward. "What?"

"I said you don't have to stay. I don't want to keep you if there are other things that require your attention."

The big Musketeer scoffed. He gestured at his broken leg. "What things? I'm stuck here, same as you. Can't go anywhere yet."

"Ah. I see." It was a testament to how drained Aramis was that Porthos could clearly hear the note of defeat in his voice. He mentally kicked himself. That probably didn't come out the way he'd intended.

"'Mis, come on now. I didn't mean it like that." The big man blew out a breath. "I'm glad you're doing better, yeah? You had us worried."

Aramis gave him a wan smile that failed to reach his eyes. "No need to worry. I'm fine."

Porthos had to raise an eyebrow at that. Fine wasn't a word he'd use to describe the marksman at the moment. It seemed that spending four years reflecting upon himself hadn't done much to curb Aramis' tendency to casually dismiss his own poor health. Porthos didn't know everything that had happened, but he knew enough from what Athos had told him that the journey back to Paris would have been less than ideal for Aramis. Riding for over six hours with broken ribs and a torn, infected shoulder while supporting someone would have been far from pleasant or easy.

Strangely enough, despite the reservations that Porthos still had about the marksman's return to the regiment, he had to admit to himself that he didn't, and never would, doubt Aramis' will to protect his brothers no matter the circumstances. He had realized long ago that Aramis' protective streak often manifested itself in ways that set Porthos' teeth on edge. Porthos also knew very well that his friend was capable of making some terrible decisions, no matter how noble his intentions were. So what made Aramis' terrible decision to stay behind during the war so offensive to him? Was it because Porthos perceived the choice to be selfish? Because it went against what he had wanted, and expected? Was that what he was punishing Aramis for? And it was punishment he'd been inflicting on Aramis - he knew that his coldness and avoidance would have hurt the other man. He couldn't avoid that fact, and it made him a bit angry at himself.

Porthos ran a hand down his face and heaved a sigh. This was why he tried to avoid self-contemplation. It just gave him a headache. Or in this case, made his headache worse.

"Look, 'Mis. I'm...I'm sorry."

The marksman started, a look of confusion crossing his face. "What for?"

"For...I don't know, for everything, I suppose. I know we - I - haven't made things easy for you since you came back with us."

Aramis looked at him, his eyes wide, and it didn't surprise the big Musketeer that he found nothing but kindness in his brother's gaze. "There's no need to apologize, mon ami. If things are difficult it was my actions that made them so. I never meant to hurt you, Porthos."

"I know. It shouldn't have taken me so long to come around to it. It's just...it's been hard for me to forget. Four years is a long time."

Aramis looked down at his hands which were resting in his lap. "It is. I understand that what I chose was...well, I can certainly see how you would find it unforgiveable."

"Maybe it's not unforgiveable," Porthos disagreed, "but I don't get it and I'm not going to pretend that I agree with your decision. We needed you, 'Mis. I needed you. It was hard to know that you weren't going to be there, that we would have do make do without you watching our backs."

Aramis nodded, still looking down. "I know. And I know you've learned to live without me, but if there is anything I could do to make it as it was, I would do it."

"We had to learn how, Aramis. We'd never have survived the war otherwise."

The marksman rapidly backpedaled. "Yes of course, I didn't mean -"

Porthos shook his head. "Let me finish. We had to make something new, without you. We didn't have a choice, yeah? But that doesn't mean we liked it. And it doesn't mean that there's no place for you now. Maybe we can't go back to what things were like before, but maybe we can make something new."

Aramis finally looked up at him, and it was impossible not to see the hope lighting his gaze. "I wouldn't mind that," he replied quietly.

"Good."

Before they could continue, the infirmary door opened again, and the familiar steps of their youngest approached.

"Porthos, is Aramis awake yet?" D'Artagnan's hushed voice echoed through the quiet room.

Aramis greeted the Gascon with a true smile. "He is indeed awake."

"Aramis! It's good to see you!" He returned the marksman's smile with a pleased grin of his own. "How are you feeling? Athos and Porthos were worried about you, but I knew you'd pull through it."

Although exhaustion was starting to creep up on him, Aramis laughed despite the spike of pain it caused, lightly resting his hand over his heart. "I appreciate your faith in me. And I feel much better, thank you."

And he did feel much better, lighter than he had in a while. He savored the feeling, allowing his natural optimism to infuse him and lift him up. It felt good to be back home.

**Author's Note:**

> X-posted at ff.net. Thanks for reading!


End file.
